The habit of doing one's duty drives away fear.

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.

The beautiful is always bizarre.

Alas! Man's vices, horrible as they are supposed to be, contain the positive proof of his taste for the infinite.

In putting off what one has to do, one runs the risk of never being able to do it.

A man who drinks only water has a secret to hide from his fellow men.

Both ardent lovers and austere scholars, when once they come to the years of discretion, love cats, so strong and gentle, the pride of the household, who like them are sensitive to the cold, and sedentary.